Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine

If I remember a dream upon waking, it usually quickly fades, as I’m told it does for most people. Few stay with me, and fewer still come back to me later.

It’s no shock that with the news and recently playing Fallout 4, nuclear war showed up in my dream. It’s the only time it’s been a theme of a dream that I can remember, despite my many many hours of playthrough of the previous Fallout game.

All I can recall is looking out a window and seeing what was basically a cartoon version of a nuclear bomb falling. I ran to Killboy and wrapped him in my arms, telling him what was happening. I knew that we would die, and it was the strangest thing, but in my dream my reaction was just to hold him and say it was ok; we were together. I was just grateful that in the last few minutes of our lives, we’d have each other.

I’m guessing that in reality (some reality where I had time to do anything beyond die still looking out that window, thanks wonky dream time-stretching), I’d be panicking and crying or just screaming in terror. So, I can’t say that the dream was realistic or about my fears. I’ll decline to further psychoanalyze myself in print, but thread of “it’s ok. We’re together.” is very similar to things I’ve been saying to KB recently.

In waking life, it’s been us trying to get through some rough times in regards to our professional and social lives, and it’s been “It’s ok, we can handle this together.” It seems we’ve come to a place where things have significantly leveled out, even if there’s no promise that things will be easy – but I’m not a real believer that many of us ever have that promise. Not everyone has the support that we find in each other. For this, I am grateful.  

Don’t Try to Hide the Perfect Mess

Going on new brain meds is like walking into a darkened room and hoping you remember where the furniture is. In this particular go round, someone moved the damn sofa.

It’s killed my appetite to the point where I forget to eat until I’m shaky, or KillBoy asks me about it and then proceeds to make sure I do eat. It has also been having negative effects on my libido, where for the first week I pretty much forgot sex was a thing. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested, I just wasn’t thinking about it, until I realized I hadn’t been thinking about it. So, of course, I brooded over it for a day or so before talking to KB. It’s completely in character for him that he gently responded that not only had he been prepared for that particular side effect, but also that he had noticed both a lack of certain affections and that my wand vibrator hadn’t been lying on the bed when he came home since I had started on them.

However, he was surprised when I told him that his tactic of giving me space by not even mentioning it to me was not the correct course of action. I don’t do well with feeling like my partner has either not noticed disinterest, or worse, that they don’t care. I also don’t like him deciding on a course of action regarding changes in my libido without asking me if it’s appropriate. I need disclosure in order to advise or to make my own choices.

I also told him though I wasn’t feeling anything in the realm of spontaneous desire, I wasn’t feeling sex averse. I was worried that if I tested, responsive desire would also be a no-go, but it was valuable information either way. Without his acknowledgement that he was avoiding seeming to pressure me for sex, I would have assumed that the various stresses coming to bear on him recently meant he was not up for it. Especially because lately, there’s been a grain of truth in that for us both.

Unfortunately, while having that conversation put us on the same page, it didn’t fix the libido issue. While my responsive desire does indeed respond, the sex we’ve had since has been intimate and enjoyable, but a bit like trying to trying to type out this post with numb hands. Masturbation was… almost pointless. It’s not completely broken, but unless it starts to go away within the next couple of weeks, I’m going to have to switch. In the meantime, I intend to keep having sex with my KB. Physical responses may be lacking but it’s not a complete loss on that level and I still love the feeling of intimacy, of ownership and control.

Last night, I gave him a short but intense spanking. My scenes with him are nearly always overtly sexual; having his body at my disposal is a source of great lust. Stroking his reddened skin, looking at him sprawled across the bed, I felt hints of it, embers that could have been stoked into a fire. It was late, so I chose to merely satisfy the parts of me that enjoy hearing him yelp and seeing him tense. To fulfill my need to play with my favorite toy and remind both of us who holds the power.

I would prefer to get my libido back in full working order, but while I’m working on that, I’m both surprised and relieved to find that my desire for d/s and kink are still unchanged.

We’re Pulling in on Every Rope We’ve Thrown.

It is sometimes incredibly awful to be an adult with responsibilities. Like a few days ago when KillBoy came home from a half day at work just as I was leaving for work. Knowing I’m leaving my sweetheart behind for the treadmill timesuck that is my job is never an easy thing, but this particular time was especially difficult.

After greeting me with a kiss and letting me know there were tater tots in the lunch he’d brought home, he flopped down in the recliner. I went to the kitchen and ate half the tots while we talked about dinner that night. When I came back to the living room, he was all sprawled out over the chair with his shirt mostly unbuttoned. I know he had to have felt me giving him the once over and the look that said I’d strip and take him… if only I had time.

However, since neither of us is rich and there are bills to pay, I had to put my shoes on and head out the door. The image of him indolently enjoying his surprise shortened day kept me somewhat warmer of disposition throughout my workday, though with a touch of annoyance over how I was there resisting strangling my least favorite coworker instead of putting my hands on KillBoy’s body.

And of course, by the time I got home I was annoyed and dog tired, so that sex or play were off the table. A lot of days are like that. We plan to break out the toys and dress him up in fishnet and cuffs, but by the time our responsibilities are done with, we’re out of time or energy.

Still, I know myself to be incredibly lucky, to have the partner who is interested in building the domestic life that brings us comfort, who gets into my brain and swims around, who makes me feel loved and comfortable when I am weary.

Lucky too to have him when I’m feeling more energetic. Next time I’ll remember to put the toys away before opening the door to the maintenance guy. Chain makes way too much noise when you try to discreetly kick it under furniture.

I Can See the Flames Dance in Your Eyes

Years ago, when I was a wee proto-geek, I read a quote in a comic book that has stayed with me since. It was, of all people, Jubilee saying (paraphrased) “It’s like you’ve readied yourself for a punch in the stomach, and then life goes and kicks you in the teeth.”

The last few months have been hard. Not particularly for the reasons I expected (though those too came to pass and were difficult), but for the ones I didn’t forsee. It’s a difficult time to realize that a life transition is both a process and bookends of “before” and “after.” To come to grips with the fact that before is a closed book.

It’s strange to realize that I miss parts of the LDR. The feeling of getting in my car and driving away from my life, to be cradled in KillBoy’s arms and home for days. Those quiet hours spent driving and singing along to music while I mentally ticked off landscapes passed by were oddly relaxing in a way I can’t quite express. Walking through his door was often a reset in my brain that put me in the modes of joy and playfulness.

Now that time is in ashes, and the present has risen forth from them. KB remains my home and my joy, but it hasn’t been the time away from time that it was for us for well over a year. Our relationship continues on the same, yet different. We can’t carve out the core of ourselves, even had we wanted to; but it’s streamlined down to its essence. I have the final say, and he gives me his heart in service. The collar has been sitting in a drawer, but each day he bends over backwards to my wishes. I worry constantly that I have not been worthy of his devotion, that I have too infrequently been my best self for him.

We seem to be able to see possibilities on the horizon. The thing that is sometimes necessary for lush growth in a forest is a fire; this fire does not cleanly cleanse as in most metaphorical use. A forest fire kills, leaves burned stumps, acres of ash and choking haze. I stand hand in hand with my KillBoy in that haze. We can see it lifting now, but the scars on the land remain. We cannot grow without pain, and I would not have us stay static to avoid pain.

Got a bow on my panties, because my ass is a present

As women, we hear a lot that to be “sexy” means being desirable/desired. But if we’re doing the desiring (or even the up-against-the-wall kissing!), is there still room to feel “sexy”? Or maybe you think of being “sexy” and being desirable as two different things? How do you like to know that your partner desires you, and how do you like to express your desire for them? – /r/dommebloggers group prompt for the month.

When I read other people’s perspectives when they try to dictate what is and isn’t appropriate for dominant women. I’m filled mostly with a sense of bemusement that anyone would believe they could tell me what I should or shouldn’t do with my boy. I don’t have much, if any, reluctance towards any particular act I desire, just because it supposedly doesn’t fit with my “role”. I don’t have to jump through hoops to feel that I’m both in control and sexy. That freedom isn’t a magic fix for all of my issues with feeling sexy and desired, though.

I have had some exes who have dug at my trust and confidence like it was their job to slowly but surely demolish it. One particular ex was initially delighted that I was sexually confident and aggressive, until he wasn’t, and suddenly I was an embarrassment. While I’m as happy as a chinchilla in a dust bath to be out of that relationship and one where I have no conscious, higher level doubt that I’m appreciated, I still get those emotional knee-jerk needs for reassurance. I need the occasional initiation of sex from him as well as vocalized appreciation. My neuroses sometimes mean that I end up telling him I’m feeling a little under appreciated, and while that’s entirely about my jerkbrain, he’s good about topping off my tank. This is the part where I get very self-conscious about my role as his owner; surely he shouldn’t have to tell me, big bad wicked lady, that yes he still totally wants to touch my butt. Fortunately, I’m more invested in self-care than castigating myself over not being the cool controlled archetype that I sometimes do wish I could be.

“Sexy” within the context of my relationship is in large part something that I feel by virtue of the fact that we fill each other’s needs by being ourselves. I know that I can have him on his knees when I want, and that he wants to be there. That kind of sexy is easy, because I know he wants me even after he’s seen me eating cookie butter straight from the jar while wearing sweatpants. Same as how he’s wildly sexy to me even when he’s angry at the world because once again he’s discovered that morning exists.

Outside of that context, my general belief in my own sexiness has been a hard won feeling; I’m short, round, geeky and alternate between shy and loud. I’ll never be 20 again, or a size 2, or have people walking into posts because they were double taking at my looks. That’s ok with me, the older I get, the more I revel in being a shot of hard liquor instead of everyone’s cup of tea. My not fitting in with the supposed idealized image of what feminine physical beauty is, combined with my sharp edges and mouthiness, mean that assholes tend to filter themselves out from bothering me. I’ve come to realize that for the most part, the people who are left who are attracted to me really do appreciate my particular high alc%. That makes me incredibly sexy, because all I have to do is be me.

Displays of desire are easy for me towards boy. I tend to be direct, telling him to get naked, get in bed, telling him that he’s hot and needs a good hard fucking. He’s my fucktoy, so in general I’m no more gentle with him than my hitachi. And I might have burned the motor out on my hitachi a few months ago. Aside from that, I was really pleased to find out that when I dress him up in ways I find sexually pleasing, he feels desired, which is my main aim vis-à-vis the effect on him. It’s endlessly frustrating to constantly hear that women who like crossdressing men must be inherently trying to humiliate them.

I have very little problem with him being aggressive in showing his desire for me. I actually prefer that he frequently tops me, and that he’s often the one to make the first move towards actual sex. I do occasionally get pangs of “who the fuck do you think you are?!” at him, but I feel very mixed in my reaction to that feeling. It makes me feel like some asshole self-important douchey dom to even think that, especially when he has so much latitude from me for being aggressive that there’s no way he could possibly know where the line is every time. On the other hand, it could be very very fun to pull him up short, done properly. Hmmmm….

… right, the question. I find that I enjoy aggressive masculine energy, but a large part of what makes it so delicious for me is the ability to flip things around, to take control at any moment, and to know that no matter what, he’s not coming without my permission. To function in our relationship, I need that aggression in context, to know that it’s built on a foundation of him agreeing to ultimately obey me, even if it means that I’ll pull him to heel on a dime.

Your Rising Sun, My Kingdom Come

I completely understand why some people are limerence junkies.

All relationships, no matter how passionate, eventually lose some of the brightest fireworks of the chemical cocktail that goes off in our brains when we are around our mates. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s how we remember to live the rest of our lives, and there’s as much if not more emotional reward in creating a steady deep bond with someone over time.

But there’s something so compelling about that roller coaster of breathless highs and the lows of longing. It’s no mistake that they call it falling in love; when it’s good you feel weightless, when it’s bad, you can only brace for the sudden stop on impact.

Meeting boy was a shock. I was just leaving a bad relationship, and while I was looking to feed my romantic/sexual needs, I didn’t want to fall in love again so soon.

There was something about him from the beginning. The way he finished my thoughts as if he could hear them, perhaps. I had a fantasy then that was shiny and new to me, very different from my usual. I’m not shy about sharing such things with people who I’m comfortable talking sex with, but this was different, and I would have sworn I’d keep it quiet to even my closest friends. Within a week, I was painting that picture for him, and he was telling me he wanted to make it a reality for me. Beyond all reason and my own hard won sensibility, I trusted him.

The first time he told me he was in love with me, it was terrifying and exhilarating, emotional knife play around my heart. I knew the sensible thing was to be scared, to back off. But all I could think was “Of course! Of course you are, and of course I am. We finally found each other.” I don’t believe in a lot of romantic notions, like fate or soulmates. But it felt so inevitable, as if we were at the end of a path of dominoes that fell just to knock us together.

The form of our relationship has dragged out the lows and highs, as we count days, hours, minutes until we’re in each others arms. But it’s somehow still not the same, somehow more comforting and more like home. Less like holding hands while we skydived over unknown landscapes. It’s not that we don’t have passion, not that we don’t still have highs where he makes my heart and body catch fire, I just don’t regularly feel drunk and out of emotional control at the mere sight of him, at the sound of his voice at the end of the day.

We spoke recently, about some of the more complicated and less fun parts of my life that he’s accepting into his by moving down here to be by my side. His look of fierceness and determination as he insisted he had no regrets and that he’d do it all over again, made my heart do a slow-motion backflip that I haven’t felt in a while. It was like falling in love all over again as I melted. It’s even more precious now that I don’t expect fireworks, to get that heady rush.

You can’t make the new love chemical cocktail keep happening in everyday life, though I understand why people chase that high. It may not be fireworks every night but he still has the ability to make the stars shine brighter in my sky than anyone ever has.

And When the Sky is Turning Red

Before the season is up, my LDR will be at an end, and I am terrified.

I’m not losing him; there will be a move and we will finally be able to sleep next to each other each night.

Unfortunately, our plan to actually do this move the way we would have liked got upended several months ago, and our hands forced. So he’s moving into a less than ideal situation, and I’m doing my best to prepare so as to downgrade all the adjustments from “hellish” to merely “uncomfortable and irritating.”

I’m so looking forward to no more painful goodbyes. It got so hard for me to leave, watching him in my rearview mirror, that I started waiting until he was at work, and I just locked the door on my way out. How could I not be filled with joy at being able to hold him in my arms every day?

Still. This isn’t perfect. Life isn’t perfect.

We have a strong relationship. We love and respect each other, enjoying the smallest of moments spent together. I adore him as my sweet pet boy, but he’s also my friend and confidant, the first person I think of telling when something really cool or completely terrible happens to me.

For all that, it’s hard not to worry. A friend of mine is also moving in with a partner, and we shared our fears that we’ll look back and think “Yeah, that was the beginning of the end.” because we value these relationships so highly that it’s hard to not panic that changing such a big part of it will ruin everything. All I can do is try to reasonably prepare and have faith that the strength that kept us together when being apart feels like being dragged over glass, will pull us through a different set of trials.

Ok, and I’ll totally have his pretty ass in my bed every night. That helps too.